by Mark Morelli
I drove up the hill of Howard Street from downtown Akron and took a quick
glance into the rear view mirror.
What was that?
I took another quick glance.
There, in my rear view mirror, was a sight to behold. It was the Akron
skyline.
Or was it?
Framed in the rear view mirror it reminded me of the view I used to see
every day during the years I worked in Manhattan.
I work in downtown Akron. I've seen the Akron skyline countless times. Never
before had it reminded me of New York's and those of you who have laid
eyes on both know that it shouldn't.
There's no comparison.
But this time, maybe because it was framed in my tiny rear view mirror, like a postcard, the Akron skyline was stunning.
Why did this image stick with me? Why do I even need to be reminded of New York?
Because I sorely miss the metropolitan life.
Or perhaps not so much the metropolitan life, but its promise. New York is a
city of possibilities. Difficulties. Luck. And failure. If I can make it there. That skyline, that fabulous, breath-taking, awe-inspiring, exhausting New York City skyline. The numbing, exhilarating, full-of-promise-and-possibility city of stories. Maybe my story.
Well, my SHORT story since I am now already back in my native Ohio, and pretty much glad to be back, even though there is much I miss about New York. But I left it. I could not get it under my thumb. Unconquerable, it spat me out.
Yet not before I had a few jobs, viewing the city at lunch through my high-rise office, taking comedy writing classes, walking the length of Broadway, seeing shows, going elbow to elbow in subways, sleeping on buses, basking in the river of human energy of Central Park on Sunday afternoons, and the biggest and most surprising thrill of all: Giving directions to tourists.
I fail to remember the grueling aspect of it. I remember the romance like I fondly remember an old girlfriend, with whom I was incompatible and who became someone else's bride every time I get a passing whiff of White Linen.
I take daily walks throughout downtown Akron and I capture weak but sufficient reminders of my glorious lunchtime walks through Manhattan. But step into any downtown Akron office building and look at the ledger on the lobby wall. Attorneys, all attorneys, and so goes diversity. So goes vibrant street life. So it goes, when you make the ridiculous mistake of trying to compare anything to New York. Downtown Akron has bland coffee shops. It has no Carnegie Deli. And it oughtn't. I should stop kidding myself.
The poet Jelaluddin Rumi said, "If you've not been fed, be bread." After leaving New York, I should stop feeling entitled to anything more spectacular than I can build myself. Trees jutting from hillsides bend their trunks toward the sun.
And so: Only dullards abandon perfectly salvageable dreams. The clever ones keep their dreams and recalibrate them to fit what now presents itself to them as life.
And so I recalibrate. How can I find the vivacity of that never-to-be-duplicated city now that I am back in Ohio?
I don't have the right answer, but I'm beginning to weed out the wrong ones. And one that is definitely off the mark is my mistaking New York City as the only incubator for magic human creativity for which I am looking.
And a choice glance in the rear view mirror should fuel my inspiration, not my regrets. I will be bread.
